


People Love Us on Yelp

by AliLamba



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Massage, Shameless Smut, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6689533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skyeward, masseuse AU. </p><p>Coulson sees that Skye is overly stressed on the job and suggests she get a massage. May knows she's going to mess it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Love Us on Yelp

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I had no idea what to call this. Prompt for week four (last week of Skyeward Smut Fest!! Ahhh nooo!! I’m not ready I want mooore) was ‘The Butterfly’ position from the Kama Sutra. Google at your leisure.

 

 

 

Ward can’t say he ever grew up wanting to be a masseuse. For one thing, when he was six he wanted to be a, well (it’s stupid), a super spy, and for another - that’s a fucking hard word to spell.

A twist of fate during his teens led him towards this more tranquil existence, and he’s not sorry. Secret agents are what all kids want to be. Firemen, princesses, veterinarians, ice dancers – those are normal. Those are jobs kids understand. And it’s not like he regrets where his life is at. He’s a good massoose.

No, really, all things considered, Ward is happy with his life. He has a small shop in a not quite trendy part of LA, a nice enough house within walking distance, and he’s his own boss. He gets regular clients, has a secretary, and he can pay his own bills.

“And you take care, Miss Price. The roads are wet today.”

She gives him a dreamy, blissful smile, and the bell above the door rings when it’s closed behind her.

Grant sighs. His hands are aching a little; it would probably be a good idea to soak them before heading home.

“Hey Raina, anyone else for today?”

She looks up from her laptop, where she’s finalizing a calendar. “Hmm? Oh, no, none today Mr. Ward. Tomorrow’s full though.”

Ward is peering out into the dreary, gray April sky. “Yeah well, why don’t you head home early. It’s almost five, and traffic is sure to be hell.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her smile is less dreamy, more thankful, as she starts collecting her stuff.

Ward heads into the back room, where he sets about tidying the massage space, getting it ready for tomorrow’s first client. He wonders when he last took a vacation, wonders what’s in his fridge when he gets home. His hands are, really, a little sore – it might be worth it to –

The door bell chimes.

Ward pauses, his hands hovering over the fresh sheet he’d just laid out on the massage table.

Didn’t – he could’ve sworn Raina had already left. She could just be back, he supposes. She might’ve forgotten something. But she typically makes a lot more noise, and the reception area is silent.

And for whatever reason, Ward’s attention is raised.

He straightens to his full height, and steps cautiously toward the hall. He’s just about to call out Raina’s name and ask what’s up when –

“ _Hello?_ ”

It’s shouted way too loud to be technically polite. It’s a demand, really, tone all ‘get out here and serve me.’ It’s also a voice he doesn’t recognize. It’s the voice of a pushy new client he’s not sure he has the energy for right now.

Ward steps into the stranger’s line of sight, making enough noise to turn her head.

“I’m here,” is what he says, for some reason. She’s small and slight of build, this girl, and she’s wearing dark sunglasses and a leather jacket. For some reason – maybe the jaunty way she holds her body – the look isn’t odd, on her.

“Can I help you?” is what he asks, when he’s past the curtains and behind the reception desk.

“Yeah, I’m here for a massage?”

Why does he pause? No good reason.

“Yeah, well, out of luck, we only do open heart surgery here.”

It’s the sort of corny, pathetic joke, that honestly – he has no idea where it comes from. He has no idea, but then he does, because she smirks a little.

“Yeah okay, I know it’s like five o’clock but, whatever. Your door was open. And I need a massage.”

He looks her up and down for a moment. She really is standing at an odd angle. Her hair is cut short, just above her shoulders, and it’s wavy in this way he’s heard ex-girlfriends complain about, even though it always looks nice. She’s young, too – the job wouldn’t be too hard. He has time.

“Sure.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I guess. Like you said, the door was open. Might as well. Cost is – “

“Yeah it doesn’t matter what it costs.”

“… _Oh_ -kay.”

She frowns, behind her glasses, and he wonders what she’s frowning about.

“Well, come on back.”

He turns away from her and starts walking to the massage studio. He dims the lights, turns on the stereo system to nondescript relaxation whatever, and heads to the aromatherapy cabinet.

“Do you have a preferred scent? We have woodland peace, lakeshore serenity, zen awakening…”

She snorts. “What, you don’t have like, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry?”

He finds himself grinning.

“Fresh out. You’ll probably be stuck with Buddha Sunrise.”

“And what the fuck does that smell like.”

He turns back toward her. “Feet, mostly.”

She laughs.

“Pick whatever you want.”

Grant tucks back a grin, indeed picking his favorite – it’s a woodsy, fresh scent, practically the total opposite of LA, and it reminds him of nothing but good things.

“So I’ll leave you for a moment so you can undress to your comfort leve—“

He turns back toward his client, who is already half out of her clothes, who looks like she’s been caught doing something she didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to be doing.

“Oh.”

“Oh, uh, I was supposed to wait?”

“I mean – no – it’s fine – “

“Shit. May said I was going to mess this shit up.”

“May?”

“She was all ‘ _women_ go to spas, Skye. Spas require manners.’ And then I was all shut up you’re not my mom – “

Ward is staring at her blankly. He’s trying not to look at her bra.

“Okay, that last part was a joke, but…”

He’s still looking at her with slightly widened eyes.

“Okay you can turn around now!”

Ward starts a little, turns quickly. He stares at the countertop and his brow furrows, while he curses himself for his lack of professionalism. Is he just tired? Sore? Maybe it’s just that she’s like a few decades younger than his typical client. Maybe it’s just that she’s really, honestly, very attractive. He shakes his head a little to try to reset some priorities.

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, there’s a robe, hanging beside the door. But uh, I can get out of here while you get ready. When you’re done you can hop onto the table, under the sheet. I’ll be back, in, uh, just a few minutes.”

He walks sideways to the door, carefully keeping his back to her the whole time, nearly crashing into the wall when he almost misses his exit. When he’s got the door open and he’s in the crack, he remembers –

“Uh, do you need some water or something?” his voice – holy shit – it _breaks_ , and he’s never been so mortified.

And why does it take her a moment to respond? Why does it sound like she’s _smiling_ when she does?

“No. I’m fine.”

 

 

 

It’s a long, tense few minutes outside the room. Ward washes his hands, and makes sure his face isn’t red, does a few laps of the building before heading back to the room. He’s locked the front door and pulled the blinds. It’s only because Raina’s gone, he tells himself. Raina’s not in the office and he’ll be indisposed for roughly an hour. He doesn’t want any more latecomers. There’s a Clippers game on tonight he wants to watch.

He hesitates outside the door. Takes a deep breath. Raises his hand, and knocks.

“Ready?”

There’s a muffled reply that sounds like a yes.

“I’m uh, I’m coming in now…”

He opens the door cautiously, letting out a relieved exhale when he sees she’s face-down on the table. The sheet falls at her upper back, so, really, all the, er, pertinent – all the parts normally covered when he walks into the room are covered. He walks up to the table near her head.

“Do you have any allergies I should know about?”

“Allergies?” She tilts her head to the side. “Why the fuck would you need to know about my allergies?”

“I honestly don’t remember anymore. I’m just so used to asking.”

She grins, and then turns her face back into its little hole.

“No allergies!” she called out, when he doesn’t start right away. He’d been staring at her back under the sheet, unconsciously looking for panty lines. _God damnit._

He moves instead to the counter again, picks up some oils, brings them to a smaller table within arm’s reach.

“Anywhere in particular you want to focus on?” he asks, again, all routine, as he picks up the sheet with two hands, and starts to fold it down her back. Then he freezes. “What the – “

Her back is _covered_ in bruises. Pinks, purples, gross, yellowing shades that remind him of puss –

“Holy…holy _shit,_ ” he whispers.

He hears his client swallow. “Yeah uh. I’m in a very. Uh. Physical line of work.”

“Like Fight Club? That’s supposed to be a hobby god damnit are you okay?”

She leans up, perches her weight onto a forearm, and fixes him with a stare. “I’m fine.” She smiles as a formality. “I’m paying you to replace a chair at the mall. Not to give me a physical. Is that going to be a problem?”

He’s still totally horrified. But – she’s right. He’s not a doctor, first of all, and second of all – she clearly seems like a woman who can take care of herself. Ward breathes deeply, and exhales.

“Yeah, that’s…fine.”

“Good.”

She settles back into place.

Ward sucks in a breath and holds it as he applies massage oil to his palms. He’s honestly a little unsure where to start. “Just – just tell me if anything is too much, okay?”

She doesn’t respond, so Ward steps up to her back, and starts doing his job. At first it’s careful – maybe too careful, because she’s sighing a bunch like he’s barely doing anything. But then he starts to have a feel for where the bruises are, gets an idea how far they extend. He gets too close to one over her left kidney and she hisses, so he knows, to avoid that one. But generally…it’s an interesting visit, an interesting job, and he approaches her skin and its underlying muscles as more of a project than practice. He has to pay attention.

She likes having her neck rubbed. Just below the hairline, all the way down into the shoulders. It’s where he gets the first, tiny, miniscule, barely noticeable if he weren’t able to tune out the crap spa muzak so well – she moans.

 

 

 

“Thanks for that.”

She’s back in her leather jacket, standing on the sidewalk. Grant is standing in the door, half in, half out, like a total idiot. Thankfully, he won’t be able to truly appreciate it until later, second quarter of the Clippers game, and he’ll miss most of the second half obsessing over how stupid he looked.

“Yeah, well. It’s my job.”

“You’re not bad at it,” she grins, squinting a little, as if reluctant to pay the complement, or embarrassed to be giving it in the first place.

“Thanks,” he smiles back, meaning it. “Hey – I uh, I never got your name.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. “Daisy.”

“Daisy?”

“Something wrong with Daisy?”

He remembers her bruises, takes in her leather jacket, the motorcycle parked outside his storefront.

“Not at all.”

 

 

 

 

Frankly, he never expected to see her again.

It’s a realization that sort of floors him in the middle of doing something else – in this instance, his 10 am with Mrs. Parker – but she’s already asleep, so it’s not as awful as it could’ve been. But he realizes that she never filled out a form, he has none of her contact information, that she paid with cash. He has nothing, and everything about her screams _transient_. Is that why he can’t stop thinking about her? Just because – she was so temporary? It’s hard to be sure. But even Raina calls him out on being off.

“Off?”

“Yeah, just – I don’t know…quiet?”

“Is quiet bad?”

“No,” she blushes. “I’m sorry, no, it’s not bad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – “

“It’s fine,” he apologizes, genuinely upset he upset her. “Don’t worry about it. You’re right, sorry, I am off. We uh, we just got a, uh, a client after you left, yesterday.”

She’s stunned silent for a second. Then she raises her eyebrows. “A client?”

“Yeah…” Ward rubs his jaw. “She – she came in just after you left. Anyway, it’s not a big deal, there’s nothing to do with it, she didn’t leave her info or anything. She came and left.”

“What, didn’t she pay you?”

“No, I mean, yes, but – no, nothing like that. She was just…”

He leaves it hanging too long, and Raina finishes it. “Odd?”

He turns, and holds an impassive, taut gaze.

“…Yeah.”

 

 

He spends two weeks leaving the office late before he realizes he’s even doing it at all. And that’s faintly, just a little ridiculous. So he stops. He closes shop at exactly 5:10 pm, sometimes 6:10 pm, when a client is pushy enough to demand the late appointment, and his life continues. The Clippers don’t make it to the play-offs.

 

 

And he doesn’t even realize that he’s stopped thinking about her, until he’s locking the front door behind him one Wednesday afternoon, he turns toward the street – and he completely halts, dead in his tracks.

“ _Daisy –_ “

She smiles. It’s an adorable smile, the way it spreads, a little excited to have so obviously stunned him. And she has, he can’t pretend that he’s not totally poleaxed to see her. She’s sitting on her motorcycle, sunglasses off, jacket over the handlebars, seemingly waiting for him.

“You closing early? C’mon. I couldn’t get an appointment.”

“You – “ He has to swallow, and it hurts when he does. “You what?”

She jumps off the bike. “I called. Couldn’t get an appointment until next week.” Then she’s standing close, like, closer than he’s comfortable with, and he thinks he can smell her shampoo in the spring air. “And I’m gone next week.”

She looks great. “I get the feeling you’re gone a lot.”

“Yeah, well, traveling Fight Club, so.” She pushes her hands into her pockets, shrugs her shoulders near her ears. “Gotta make sure everyone gets their turn.”

He glances at her shoulders, made bare by the tank top she’s wearing. There are fresh bruises everywhere, even a jagged cut all down one forearm that looks like it’s nowhere near healed.

He has to swallow again. He wants to ask, again, if she’s okay, but he remembers all too well how _that_ went last time.

“Do you – “ he can’t just get out a fucking sentence, apparently. “Do you want to come in?”

Her bangs hang into her eyes just a little. “Well I’m not here for open heart surgery…”

 

 

“Do you want to go with the same aromatherapy as last time?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Oh and, uh, do we have to listen to that same crap music?”

He laughs a little. “Crap music?”

“Yeah, whatever that…that shit was, from last time.” She’s pulling off her pants, one leg at a time. Ward turns back to the stereo.

“Right, no crap music,” he muses. “I’ll have you know that is like scientifically proven to be soothing.”

She snorts. “Give me a copy, then. I know the two most uptight scientists on the planet.”

The thought makes his brow furrow. “What do you do? Again?”

“I told you,” she says, and he hears her unclasp her bra. “Fight club.”

He grins, sardonic. “Okay, well, what do you listen to in Fight Club.”

She laughs, short and breathless as she flops onto the table. “Uh. Mostly a lot of disco-pop.”

He laughs too. “Disco-pop?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Cher, Britney, Bee Gees, you name it. Really gets us pumped up to 11.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You ready?” He’d heard the sheet ruffle.

“Yeah, I’m decent.”

He turns, and she’s on her front, sheet falling into place over her back. He gets a much too intimate glance – and – shit, that shouldn’t happen. He clears his throat, trying to be a discreet professional. “Uh. What – what d’you want to listen to?”

She shrugs from the table. “Whatever. I’m not picky. Just not that crap from before. My only request.”

He puts on something he likes; it’s classical, all piano and strings and stuff – it’s what he would listen to, personally, if he needed to unwind.  She doesn’t object, so he figures that’s as much of a yes as anything.

He starts on her neck, really spends his time, kneading the muscles of her trapezius, running his hands over the sides of her neck until her shoulders finally relax. It takes awhile, but it’s worth it, feeling all the tension literally leave her under his hands.

He moves on to her upper back, to her deltoids, the muscles under and around her shoulder blades. The bruises are new, and lighter this time, scattered mostly to her left side, where purpura has peppered her skin with dulling purple flecks of blood, deep in the tissue. He can’t imagine what she’s been doing since he’s seen her last. He doesn’t ask now. He won’t ask later. Instead he approaches her with the same careful tenacity as before, probing gently where areas look tender, reading the way she flinches at certain moments, goes liquid at others. It’s fascinating, really. It’s consuming, taking all of his time and attention. He doesn’t focus so much, when he’s moving his hands up and down her legs each one in turn, on her nudity. He really doesn’t. He’s so much more focused on the end goal of making her feel better. He’s silent as he works on her, until he has to ask her to move, or to turn, and that’s when he realizes his throat is so dry.

His hands are sore and aching by the time he deems himself satisfied. He looks up at the clock, and realizes he’s been working for almost two hours. Two full hours with no break, no intermission, and – he wonders, whether, she’s honestly asleep.

“’S that all?” she murmurs, and it’s – it’s honestly the most delectable, blood-rushing thing she could’ve said, really. Her sleepy, warm, contented tone just…she’s really, very pretty.

“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” Ward whispers back. He might have to cancel his first appointment in the morning. Daisy turns her face so she can look at him. The lighting is dim, and her brown eyes sparkle at him.

“Well,” she breathes in deep. “Thanks.”

 

 

He decides to walk her out, not even bothering to clean up after her. He really will cancel his first appointment of the day, he decides. He’ll ask Raina to tell Miss Everheart he got stuck in traffic or something.

Daisy still looks practically kitten-like when she comes into the reception area, face warm and posture relaxed. She’s smiling at him with lips closed, totally content.

“Thanks for that, doc,” she says, pulling her jacket on. It’s dark out, and probably cold. Ward wets his lips quickly.

“When am I going to see you again?”

She’s pushing her hair out of the jacket’s collar.

“When?”

He realizes he’s being an idiot. A very forward, obvious idiot. “Uh. Yeah.”

She doesn’t look at him all at once, letting his words sit in the air for awhile, enough for him to regret them.

“Well, I’m not in town much.”

His shoulders deflate. He knew as much already – not sure why it’s such a let-down.

“I mean, I think I will be, for awhile, but I’m not sure. I travel a lot,” she meets his gaze, almost defiantly. “For work.”

“You travel a lot…for work.”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He can’t look away from her face, apparently. “Okay, as in, if you say so.”

She narrows her gaze at him, not a lot, but just enough to be noticeable. “Are you sure I should be coming back here?”

He stands up almost too quickly. He’s got her helmet in his hands. From this angle he’s noticeably taller than her, and she has to look up at him.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

 

 

 

And she does. Maybe not right away. Maybe not the next night, but she does come back, seemingly always waiting until she’s seen Raina leave, which is something he notices after awhile. He makes a habit of bringing a book with him, of reading or working until 5:30…and then, 5:45, just to be sure. Which is silly, really, because it never takes her that long to show up. Five minutes after he’s sent Raina home, she’s there, with the chime of that bell above the door.

The bruises begin to fade. The deep gash wound on her forearm heals, makes a faint scar he can be careful with. Her shoulders are always, _always_ tense. Her thighs show wear and use – her job is physical, whatever it is. Physical and requiring travel. He tries not to dwell on what it is, that she does. What kind of job requires you to be in peak physical condition and leaves you with bruises and wounds all over your body? He has a few ideas, but none of them seem right. Motorcycle gang? Cop? Boxer? Thief?

Fight Club??

It doesn’t quite matter.

Really, it just doesn’t, not on the good days when they joke and make fun of each other and his dumb taste in classical music. Not on the bad days when she’s just totally silent and pays with way more cash than necessary. The days when no amount of work with his hands makes the tension go away. Those days when he uses his deepest, most borderline painful techniques and she still makes no sounds like he’s doing enough.

 

 

And then one day she kisses him.

It’s on a good day. She’s all smiles when she’s getting ready to go, they’re both in the reception area, what has become the staging area for their totally different lives.

“You have plans for this weekend?”

It’s rare that she asks him something like that. He perks up a little, intrigued. “Uh, yeah. Seeing my brother.”

“Well that’ll be fun.” It’s a polite thing to say, so he doesn’t contradict her.

Then all of a sudden she looks – sheepish?

“I uh,” she stammers. “I don’t have enough cash on me today?”

His mind is blank for a quick moment. “Oh – that’s fine,” he says automatically. “No seriously that’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Next time right?” He finally adopts that nonchalant swagger he’s always going for. “I know you’re good for it.”

Her upper lip cinches beneath her nose, but she’s amused as she walks closer. She walks so close he straightens on the armrest of the chair in his waiting room, and she still doesn’t stop. When she does, it’s like – she’s maybe eight inches away, give or take, and that’s – insane. He can’t breathe.

“I’m good for a lot of things,” she says, and he has no idea how _nonchalant swagger_ comes to her so easily. “But I still feel bad. I feel bad, so – “

She brings her hands up, near his face, and Ward’s eyes go just a little bit wider. His heart starts beating faster in his chest. She touches either side of his face, wets her own lips, and leans forward – just barely…and then she ducks, and presses her lips against his cheek.

She leans back, and looks far too smug for her own good.

“You can breathe now,” she says, but her words aren’t meant to sting.

Ward laughs, breathlessly, awkwardly, anyway. His heart is _hammering_ against his ribs. His pants are definitely, fifteen-to-twenty-percent tighter than they were a second ago.

“Hey,” he says, automatically, because how can he not say it. “D’you – d’you want to go out to dinner?” She stares at him with eyebrows raised. “I mean – it’s dinner time, technically, and you’re here, and, well, I was just going to go home and eat leftover salad or something.”

She’s quiet, eyes glittering, grinning like she’s probably not going to hit him.

“Leftover salad sounds good,” she says, and his life falls apart. “But not tonight.” Her hands had drifted to his shoulders, but now she brings one of them up, to thumb his jaw. “Bad luck, asking tonight.”

She gives him a peck on the lips.

It’s – it’s a _nothing_ , really. There’s nothing to the way she barely presses her lips against his. It’s quick and meaningless and in France it would be considered simply friendly but –

Holy shit.

His whole life is changed.

 

 

He finds that he’s _anxious_ for her to come now, and sort of not really in a good way. The whole next few days he stares at the clock every few seconds, wondering why the day is taking so long, wondering if she’ll be there ten minutes after closing. It’s almost unfair, the amount of stress it’s causing him. Honestly it’s almost _ru_ –

“ _Daisy?_ ”

“Hey…Ward.”

She didn’t come by motorcycle today, and it’s immediately obvious why. Her whole body is tilted like she’d had a stroke or something – one half is simply…limp, almost, held together by whatever muscles she has left. Her lip is split at the corner, there is a huge bruise is on her beautiful face – she looks as if she was hit by a fucking _truck_. A truck full of _baseball bats_.

“I’m calling the cops.”

He immediately turns and unlocks the door, barely hearing the way she swears under her breath.

“ _Shit_ , no, Ward – “ she tries to say, but he’s literally not listening. He throws his keys on the counter and ducks to the desk Raina’s left warm, grabbing the phone off its hook. He heard once that using a landline will get emergency responders to a scene more quickly and he’s not wasting any fucking chances –

Her finger slams down on the cradle, and the line goes dead.

His head shoots up.

“Okay. You’re pissed.”

“ _Jesus_ , Daisy – have you – have you _seen yourself?_ ”

“No?” she grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“ _Jesus._ ” He puts his head in his hands, briefly, then pops up again. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No – “ she tries again, hand shooting out in his direction. “Fuck, Ward, I’m fine. Look, I’m fine.” She – she tries to dance. She tries to _dance_ and it does not go well because a) she’s not an elegant dancer to begin with, and b) she winces halfway through the first mamba and her body gives her away.

“Yeah. Hospital. We’re going. Where are your keys. My car is too far away.”

“ _Ward_ ,” she whines, in this really effective way. He stops. Doesn’t turn back to face her.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she continues. “And…” here she hesitates. “This is hardly the most banged up I’ve ever been in my life.” Ward feels suddenly, crushingly defeated.

He turns on her. He hasn’t even turned the lights back on. It’s still light outside, barely sunset, and pre-dusk sunlight is creeping in around the blinds.

“What the hell do you do.”

She doesn’t break eye contact. That’s not surprising to him at this point, how strong she is.

“Fight club?” she whispers.

“ _Fight club_.”

She buttons her lower lip. Swallows. Nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Fight club.”

“Jesus fucking christ, Daisy,” he swears, and then he crosses the room in three bold strides, throws his arms around her, and kisses her.

The kiss is not the way he first likes to kiss a girl. Technically they’ve kissed before, kind of, which is why he so ardently throws himself into this one, making it all lips pressed so closely together their noses get smashed. He grips her so hard against his body that she moans a little – he’s hurting her – he’s hurting her and he can’t stop himself because literally the idea of her being hurt or in danger is destroying him inside and out.

“ _Ward_ ,” she breathes, wrenching herself away. He can taste blood in his mouth. Her blood. _What the fuck_. She steps back, he lets her, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You can come home with me tonight. You’re not safe on your own.”

The look she gives him is pure sardonicism, and he feels stupid without knowing why.

“I’m fine, Ward. Honestly.”

“You’re not fine,” he mutters, and he looks down at his toes. “I really want you to come home with me tonight.”

“Jeez, take a girl to dinner first.”

“Not – “ he stops himself. “Not like that.”

She steps in closer, and she hunts until meets his eyes. “I know,” she says. She slides her hands around his waist, and it feels – not unnatural, strangely enough. He’s too distracted to really care. “And I’m fine.”

 

 

He doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night. Mostly for obvious reasons; because he’d let Daisy drive off in her car without him. Because he’d forgotten to lock the doors and had to go back after midnight just to close up shop. He wonders what he is to Daisy. Is he – a friend? A…is she interested in him? So far they’ve kissed twice, once initiated by her. It wasn’t a particularly passionate kiss, the one she’d given him, but – did friends kiss like that? Somehow he’s not sure they’re friends. But then, he’s not really sure what they are, if they aren’t friends. He doesn’t have her phone number, doesn’t know her last name. She shows up when she wants and he’s always, _always_ there for her, and he has been for the last two-odd months.

He might be, just a little bit, in love with her.

She is definitely…and this is the worst part…she’s definitely the feature of all his wet dreams. All his wet – well, wet _awake_ dreams too. How could she not, really? She’s gorgeous, and he spends a regular amount of his time touching nearly every inch of her skin…enough that, it makes the parts he _hasn’t_ touched…even more appealing. He’s had hot clients before, sure, but – jesus, none like her. None that wake him up at night. None that _keep_ him up at night.

There’s something about her. There’s a lot of something about her, honestly.

 

 

 

He’s irritable all the next day, snapping once at Raina for humming at her desk. It’s rude. He’s being a jerk. He apologizes and gives her the rest of the week off.

 

 

“Hello, you’ve reached The Massage Studio.”

“You know that’s just a really, stunningly awful name for your place, right.”

Ward leans back in his chair, and looks at the far wall.

“Daisy.”

She pauses for a split second. Hesitates. “Surprise…”

“Shit.” He ducks his head behind the desk, aware that Mrs. Fisk is waiting for him. “Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you—“

“I’m fine, Ward. Totally fine. I really do know some totally insane scientists. They gave me the all clear. And morphine? Trust me. I’m doing _awesome_.”

He wants to grin. Really a part of his brain really does. Mostly his brain just doesn’t know what to say. Because – that emotion, that wants to grin – it’s tangled up in this mess of other complicated feelings. Feelings like, why they hell are they still doing this when she won’t even tell him her last name.

“Did you…are you calling for something?”

“Yeah – “ she starts, and it sounds like the equivalent of missing the last stair. “Uh. Right. Calling for a reason. Uh. Massage? Got any openings?”

Ward hangs his head. He scrubs his face with his free hand. “Are you sure?” he asks, because – he’s so, fucking frustrated.

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says, and now her voice is harder. Like the way it is on bad days. “So. When’s your next available opening?”

“Are we really doing this?” he asks, barely under his breath.

There’s a few beats of silence. “ _Yeah_ , Ward. We’re doing this. I’m _fine._ Now, do you have any fucking openings or not?”

He doesn’t even look at the calendar. He’s realized – this – whatever she is – he’s got to start setting his own boundaries, because boundaries are literally all she’s ever given him. If she’s just going to be his client, he’ll have to start treating her like one.

“Not until the 11th.”

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” she gripes. “Seriously? Seriously Ward?”

And the line goes dead.

 

 

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Which aromatherapy would you prefer? Zen Awakenings or Lakeshore Serenity? Do you have any allergies? Where would you like to focus today? Would you like a glass of water? Do you have any allergies?

Do you have any allergies?

_Do you have any allergies?_

 

 

 

A stunningly awful week goes by. Raina comes back, he apologizes again for snapping at her, agrees to go to the open mic night she’s playing at on Saturday afternoon.

He hits the gym. Contacts his old krav maga instructor, has a few vaguely satisfying sparring sessions. He works. He eats. He tries to get interested in the new Los Angeles’ Angels of Anaheim roster. He works some more.

 

“Mr. Ward, you’re back from lunch.”

Back from the gym, actually, back from nearly splitting a 70-pound punching bag in two.

“Yeah, any changes to the schedule?”

“Actually – yes.” She looks a little perplexed. “This was a bit odd, but your two o’clock, three o’clock, _and_ four o’clock all had to cancel.”

He swallows, not quite following. “What?”

“Yes, I also thought it was strange. But Miss Hogarth had a dental emergency, Miss Romanova had to take her cat to the vet, and Miss Walters just mumbled a lot and hung up on me.”

A suspicion has started to percolate at the back of Ward’s mind. “Huh. But – my one o’clock is still here?”

“Oh yes. She should be all ready for you. I set her up comfortably in the back just a moment ago.”

Ward rubs the side of his face, pinches the bridge of his nose. “And tell me – what sort of crap music did she request.”

“Funny you should mention that – “ Raina starts to say, before she must pick on the subtext, because she stops talking. “Oh.”

“It’s, fine, Raina. I’ll take it from here. Please, please head home. I’ll close up and see you in the morning.”

Raina – she’s a true professional, honestly. Her expression quiets, she looks down at her desk, and she compiles all of her stuff in just a few seconds, picking up her bag and coat and meeting him near the door.

“Be careful,” is all she offers, and then she leaves, with the familiar chime of the bell.

Ward stands in the entryway. He’s frowning, and unsure why. But his hand falls on the lock of the door, and he turns it, before moving to the windows, one at a time, and pulling the blinds down, and then twisting them until the windows are impervious.

Is it still considered the lion’s den if you’re meeting someone you know? Meeting someone you’ve had sexual fantasies about? Probably. But the walk down the short hallway has never felt so long. He’s never been so anxious to walk it, not even on his first day, meeting with his first client. The girl wearing the flower-print dress who’d started crying in the middle of her own massage.

He thought he’d steeled himself against what he’d find today, at one o’clock in the afternoon.

Honestly, he did.

But when he opens the door without knocking, he finds her sitting up on the massage table. The aromatherapy has already been lit, the candles are already burning. Classical music is playing in the background.

And Daisy is wearing nothing but the sheet.

“Hey,” she whispers, when he’s been standing in the doorway like an idiot for more than half a second.

He can’t respond. He’s too scared to respond.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks instead, because he’s a total, one-hundred-percent idiotic asshole.

Daisy wets her lips, looks around the room. “I uh. I’ve been having this problem with my heart, right?”

He can’t breathe.

“It’s – I think it needs to be looked at. I swear it’s not working right.”

He takes a step into the room.

“Daisy – “ he starts.

“No, don’t,” she says. “Look. I’m – I’m sorry, that I haven’t told you what I do. I honestly sort of _can’t_ tell you what I do.” This he’d sort of picked up on already. _Not a fireman. Not a cop. Not an ice dancer_. “But the thing is – I maybe – _maybe_ – sort of like you. I maybe sort of want to eat leftover salad with you.” He’s still walking into the room. “And that is – pretty fucking hard to admit, honestly.”

He’s not stopping. He realizes – he’s not going to stop. That he was never going to stop. And when he’s close enough he brings his hands up to her face and slides his fingers into her hair and then – he’s maybe barely trying to be careful – he kisses her.

He kisses her the way he likes to kiss girls for the first time. Intentionally, a little slow, bringing every new experience alive completely in the moment. He takes the time to register the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair, the feel of her pressing herself into him. Her hands wind around his torso and she’s kissing back, her lips moving in sync with his even as her fingers dig in to his t-shirt. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything so badly, as to stay this close to her forever. He’s not sure anything has ever been so addictive as the taste of her mouth.

Her lips part, and he doesn’t hesitate. He won’t anymore. His tongue slides into her mouth and her hands grip his shirt harder, two strong fists probably wrecking his clothes.

“I like you a lot,” she breaks off the kiss to say, pulling back, tugging at the bottom of his shirt until it’s flying over his head. He took a shower at the gym and he’s so glad he did, because she’s kissing him again, and now her fingers are raking against nothing but skin, and his body is responding in this predictable, rabid way, his breath rate increasing to heavy puffs through his nose, his heartrate accelerating inside his wrists and his ribs. One of her legs has fallen off the table and she presses it against his outer thigh. Ward leans into her kisses, trying not to grope her immediately. “I really like you too,” he manages to say, pushing his lips to the side of her face, to her jaw, to her neck, to the hollow of her throat. She moans – fuck, he’s heard her moan before, but never like this – and all his blood rushes into his pants. “Jesus christ I like you a lot.”

She hops on the table, bringing her ass right to the edge so she can press herself closer to him. It’s awful and amazing, really – there’s just a sheet covering her, and Ward uses the invitation to drop his hands to her arms, to her chest, to tug the sheet down with just the finger of one hand. He wants to pull back and look at her nakedness but he doesn’t, because – because it’ll probably be too much. So he feels for her instead, thumbs brushing against the swells of her breasts, over the nipples already responsive to his touch. “ _Oh Ward_ ,” she sighs, and her body responds even more. His mouth on her neck moves up again, retracing the path to her mouth, and again he kisses her, kisses her without holding back. His tongue sweeps her mouth, their lips massage each other’s, and he pulls her toward him, grabbing her around her lower back and pulling her even closer, so her bare chest presses into his, and her pelvis finds his own.

She moans again, and he nearly does too – the heat between her thighs radiates through his dark jeans, and it’s a relief when she goes for his belt because everything was getting raucously uncomfortable. He keeps kissing her, he’s not going to be able to stop, and the sound of his belt and the button and the zipper of his jeans coming undone is loud to his ears, because maybe the only other thing he can hear is the sound of his own heart beating.

“Daisy, I – “ he starts to say, because – okay, he’s trying not to make assumptions about where this is going, but it’s hard not to – she’s totally naked, the office is locked, they’re alone, and she’s just taken off his belt. He tries for some humor. “I don’t know what sort of business you think I run here, but I uh. I don’t stock condoms.”

And he thought he would be ruining the moment, but she just – she gets this shit-eating grin on her face. “Well. Lucky for you. I came prepared.”

And his jaw literally drops, because – well, because of the obvious. “We’re going to have sex,” he mutters.

“We’re going to have sex,” she agrees.

He drops his forehead to hers, closes his eyes over mounting emotions. “Jesus christ, Daisy. I – “ He has no idea what to say. “I – “ He tries one more time. Gives up entirely. “Oh fuck nevermind.”

And he dives in for the kiss, really, pushing her down onto the table, crawling half over her just so he doesn’t have to stop. His hands are shaking a little as he rips the rest of the sheet off her, and then he kisses down her body, kisses everything he can, but he’s on a mission, a damn good one, and it doesn’t end until his head is between her thighs, until he’s using his mouth to rip her apart in this completely opposite of literal way. He knows all her signs, now, every singly way her body betrays her thoughts and emotions, so doing this isn’t hard, it’s fucking glorious, because it’s almost _easy_ to get her off, easy to work her up until her hands are fisting his hair, until her shoulders are arching off the table, until her face in all of his limited view is contorting in the sweetest torture he’s able to offer –

She cries out when she comes, this stream of profanity-laced applause, his head deep into her folds, face smeared with the evidence of a job well done. His need for her is _throbbing_ , its own, real, insistent thing, and his hands slide up her body in this pretense of massage, just one gliding gesture of both hands that lets him touch every inch he’s ever wanted. He presses his lips against hers. She mews, eyes closed, brow pinched.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispers. “If that’s okay.”

She doesn’t open her eyes. She leans forward until she’s kissing him for real, and it’s not even polite, her kiss, the way it’s deep right from the minute their lips touch, and he takes that for affirmation. And then he really gets affirmation, when she hands him the condom off the small table close at hand.

Ward steps away to roll it on, stealing glances at all of her exposed skin. Daisy’s hand disappears between her thighs. It’s a heady sight, one he’s not sure he thought he was ever going to see for real. He walks to the edge of the massage table, thinking that he can’t believe this room has never played a part in his fantasies. Her knees are up and pressed together, and he kisses one, his hand resting on the other. She spreads them easily, and Ward grabs her hips, lifting them off the table, dragging her down to the edge of it in one quick stroke.

She opens her eyes and groans, deep in her throat. The inside of her thighs and everything between is slick and shining, evidence of her pleasure, and Ward takes a quick, gluttonous, mental picture. If she never sleeps with him again, he’ll have this moment.

Ward kisses the pad of his own thumb with wet lips, and puts his palm across her pelvic bone. His thumb finds her clit easily, and he thumbs it, gently, until she’s biting her lower lip. Her hips are rolling under his hand, she tries to bring her knees together again. Ward steps between them, and doesn’t take his hand away from her body while navigating his cock to her opening with the other. She _arches_ off the table when he makes first contact. Her hips dip towards him, and the head of his cock touches her innermost folds. “ _Oh, fuck_ ,” he groans, a tangled release, and he knows he can’t wait any longer. He mostly forgets about his hand as he slowly sinks into her, every inch driving him more and more mad. He sinks until he’s in all the way, and his mouth is hanging open, an awed, hypnotized fixation on the sensation of her.

Daisy can’t sit still on the table. She twists and turns her upper body, reaching out for him, grabbing at his hand and his arm. She wants him to move.

So he does.

He does, not quickly at first. He pulls back with the same deliberation, watching her body for clues that this is painful, watching for any indication that he should stop. But every wordless communication is _yes, more_ , and the soles of her feet rest on his hips and her legs drop open, so he can see literally everything. He can see and feel everything. She’s meeting his hips suddenly, rocking into him. Ward grabs her thighs and tries to hold them against his body, driving their connection deeper, but it’s hard to hold her legs while he’s fucking her, so he slides her calves up his arms until they’re resting over his shoulders. The entire back of her thighs presses against his chest then. He can feel her ass against his pelvis. She leans into their connection, her brow twisting. “ _Oh, fuck!_ ” she says, so he thinks she’s okay with what he’s doing.

Ward’s pants are on the ground. He’s still wearing his fucking socks. But Daisy’s pressing against him, he’s pressing into her, he can look down at her on his own massage table and fuck her at the same time and it’s literally the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. He almost doesn’t want it to stop. But sex is a positive feedback mechanism, each thrust building towards a goal, and it’s going maybe a little too quick, this first time, with her. It feels like they’ve barely started before he can feel her, before he can _see her_ explode around him, her orgasm blazing through her like hellfire. She’s gripping the edges of the table outside her hips with white knuckles. Ward watches her, knows his own orgasm is close, desperately close, every new thrust its own little death, when – she opens her eyes, and she looks into his, and – and he totally, absolutely, loses control.

 

 

 

 

 

They’re sitting on the ground after, a heap of clean sheets more or less protecting the delicate parts, backs against the row of cupboards where he generally keeps supplies. The room still smells woodsy and fresh, and Ward literally can’t stop smiling for more than a few seconds at a time. They’re eating the sesame crackers Raina keeps in the back office, because they were hungry, and neither are quite yet ready to put on clothes.

“So you’re a super spy, huh.”

She pretends to be shocked. “What? No. How’d you guess. I mean – no, of course I’m not.”

He laughs, and it feels amazing. “Yeah well, it was either that or pack leader of Hell’s Angels.”

“Psh,” she snorts, shoving a cracker in her mouth. “Bunch of pussies.”

“Compared to you.”

“Compared to me.”

He laughs again, softer this time, having a hard time not staring at her. She chews, staring at the far wall. “So uh,” she swallows. “How long did it take for you to realize you wanted to fuck me?”

“Daisy.” He’s not even self-conscious. “Please. I’m a professional.”

“Oh, so this is a professional service now?” she jokes, genuinely amused.

“Oh. Yeah. And let me tell you – the cost is _astronomical_.”

She laughs for a second, the sound bubbling from her throat in this really beautiful, surreal way. And then she quiets somewhow. She looks at him, his eyes, and his lips, and she leans over to press a kiss against his mouth. “Yeah well. Worth every penny.” She kisses him again. “And the best part?

“Agent May was totally wrong.”


End file.
